The Devil Drives an Impala
by Kakawot
Summary: You know that the devil drives an Impala, and he is coming for you. Alternate summary: what happens to the car after the events of season 9. Second person narrative. Spoilers for the finale.


**A/N: **This story takes place a while after the season 9 finale.

* * *

In the distance you feel that inaudible rumble and you know it's for you. The rumble awakens a primal part of you that reminds you of growling tigers. There's a shared racial memory that tells you of volcanoes, of earthquakes and tornadoes all preceded by that rumble.

Briefly you are paralyzed but then you move towards the road leading into town, along with those who felt the same rumble and also know it's for them. You line the road and nobody speaks a word. No one moves while the hot Texas sun beats down upon you. Other people who felt the rumble hide, but you don't.

Running is no use, because you know he likes to hunt. And he's awfully good at it.

The inaudible rumble becomes an audible growl, the sound of a well-maintained engine. You barely notice the beads of sweat rolling down your face, because your entire focus is on that stretch of horizon where you can hear the roar getting closer.

Faintly you hope that it disappears, turns left or right, heading towards the other towns. But as you well know there's no hope, not anymore. There's just the wait until he rolls into town.

When you woke up this morning you had no idea that this would be your last day on Earth. Otherwise you wouldn't have bothered with going to work, with eating healthy and you'd have hugged your daughter all morning. Briefly you wonder where she is, but she's safe. She has to be, she hasn't sinned yet.

When he appears, the car seems to suck the light into its glossy black metal hide. The roar turns into a content puttering when he lets up on the gas and rolls into view. Slowly he drives down the main road and you tremble with fear, but you hold your ground. The worst things happen to those who get picked first, and breaking rank attracts attention.

But unlike when a teacher calls for a volunteer to come up to the board, people stare at the car instead of looking away. They keep on staring after it when it has passed them. You notice that, apart from the engine, the car makes no noise. The tires seem to glide across the pavement, the rims spinning backwards like you're watching a movie. There's no wheeze of the A/C, no loose timing belt, no squealing brakes.

When the car nears, you hear the bass thump of music. He's – Jesus Christ, he's playing 'Highway to Hell'.

The closer it gets, the more light it seems to suck in. You still feel the heat beating down upon your brow, the sunlight sparkles off of the shop windows, but the shadows grow deeper, smokier. Everything is sharper, more contrasted.

Whispers start up when you can see the tinted glass. The whispers promise eternal pain, getting your limbs plucked off tendon by tendon, taking away slices from your living brain so thin they're transparent. He knows what you did – he's done it too. You can learn the proper way to murder someone from him, they whisper. He also knows how to hide the body, make it look like an accident. You can learn to let go of the guilt and become the demon you were always meant to be.

You're rooted to the spot when the car finally rolls by. You see lights moving behind the chrome beltline strips, you feel the engine sound thrumming all the way down to your bones. The lights shift, grow brighter and darker with no discernible pattern. For a moment you're reminded of that Tron movie, but that thought fades when you hear the muffled screams coming from the trunk. Unholy light spills from the cracks, drowning out the rear lights. The screams are multitude and never fade, just change pitch. You hear the moans of the ill and the warble of a frightened little girl.

You know that where he drove no plant would grow again, and you wonder how many tracks he's made so far all across North America.

He slams on the brakes and you know he's found his first victim. Please, for the love of God, don't let it be you. In the middle of the road he lets the car idle, but there's no traffic anyway.

When he gets out you're taken aback. He just looks so... normal. Tales tell of a disfigured man, scarred beyond belief, his skin festering and falling off, his eyes twin pools of blood and fire, his teeth sharpened like a shark's. Instead a regular dude gets out. He could use a shave and walks bow-legged. His fashion sense is more befitting of a homeless man than the Omega. You can see the faded part of his pockets, where he keeps his wallet and his phone, a tan line on his wrist where he wore a watch. He's tall though, and he could beat you in an arm-wrestling contest.

You flinch when he walks by the trunk of his car and his gait slows down.

Only once had he popped the trunk in the presence of humans, and only one lived to tell the tale. She had to tell it through sloppy writing though, because she became deaf-blind the instant the trunk opened. The survivor told of _screams_, the embodiment of suffering and eternal torment reaching out from that trunk, making the humans bleed. First from their ears, but then their eyes joined in, their mouths as they began to howl together with the screaming emanating from the trunk. The survivor said that she'd seen a glimpse of the inside of the trunk before she too was struck blind, and it showed a portal.

'To Hell', the survivor wrote before she refused to ever speak a word of it again.

You feel relieved when he walks past the trunk – death by face-melting might be a quick death, but it's not a dignified one. Your heart begins to slam into your chest when he is clearly heading for _you_!

Your neighbors surreptitiously shuffle away and leave a gap at least six feet wide between you and the nearest human. Once again you're paralyzed, unable to do anything but stare as the tiger stalks towards its prey. As he gets closer you get drawn in by his green eyes. He frowns at you, but you know that even if he gave you a death glare you would still notice the eyes. They're terrifying, because you know the intent behind them. Even if the rational part of your brain yells at you to run, to take a swing, you stand at ease with your hands behind your back and watch your end approach with strong, sure strides.

And in your last few moments you feel so very alive. You notice the freckles on his face, the spotless tires on his car, the sympathetic look of the baker across the street. You see a child peeking out the window, unable to resist watching something that would scar him for life, maybe bring the kid down to a life of sin. You glare at the child, silently tell the tyke to look away.

Then he's in front of you and fills your entire view. He _smells_, he reminds you of the fridge that broke down while you were on vacation and came home to. You have to crane your neck to look him in his horribly green eyes and find that they're no longer green. They're as black as his car and promise the same amount of pain raining down upon you.

"You killed your partner," he says, his voice not unlike the rumble of his car – too low to hear, but that makes it all the more dangerous. It's no use denying it, he knows. Someone on your left gasps and finally you feel the blood dripping down your fingers from where you clenched them so hard behind your back your nails pierced your palms.

"Yes," you simply say, staring into his eyes.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because..." you hesitate. Because your partner didn't love you anymore? Because the person you swore to help in good and in bad times slept with someone else? Because you knew nothing would ever make this right again? Because you found it hard to forgive a betrayal of your trust since-

"Because I could," you say. "Because I had to."

"You thought you were the only one in the world who had the right to," he says, and you hate how he's so right. There are things in this world that warrant murder, and a complete and utter betrayal of your trust is the one thing you wouldn't stand for. You don't want your daughter to associate a parent with distrust. So you permanently removed your partner from the equation and you've been happy ever since. Happy as can be, under the circumstances.

"Well, you're not _wrong_," he says, and his eyes flick back to green. He even gives you a smile, and it's cruel how that makes his face light up. He _should_ look like a horrid figure, here to take you all. He shouldn't look like an honest stranger, someone you'd give your cellphone to so he could make a call, someone who makes jokes on the train and shares a sandwich when the evening is long and the weather cold.

You suddenly feel the urge to punch him. He's everything you hate, he doesn't deserve to judge you for your actions. He's not worthy of your sins, was forged beneath your feet and now he towers over you, telling you that murdering your partner wasn't _wrong_. Of course it wasn't – the one you loved deserved every stab of the knife. You didn't count, but you know there were one-hundred and two strikes before you felt satisfied.

"Some people need to be killed," he says with such conviction. "There are bad people out there – and they need to be stopped."

You guffaw. Out there? The worst one of them all stands right in front of you! You notice that the circle around you and him has grown wider. People aren't stupid, they can see that this is going to escalate.

"You can join me," he says. "And we can stop this all. We can go back to the way things were – just people, living their lives."

You don't know where you find the strength, but you draw yourself up to your full height and look him in the eyes. The blood continues to creep between your fingers, and you're sure that people in China can hear your heartbeat. But you square your shoulders and flex muscles you'd forgotten you had until this moment.

"No," you say. Immediately his eyes flick to black. He hisses and takes a step back. His handsome demeanor flickers and for a second you can see the true face underneath. Descriptions of his flesh falling off weren't far from the truth, but no one told you about the teeth sticking out of his skull at random angles.

The both of you are distracted when the passenger side door of the car opens and another man steps out. He's smaller in stature, but now that you've flexed your power for the first time since the fall you find it easier to call upon it again. You recognize the visage of an angel everywhere, but why an angel would choose to ride with _him_...

"Castiel," you hiss, because you know him. He was your leader, you followed him, slaughtered for him. You sacrificed your right hand for this waste of space.

He's only half here though, like he's flickering between human and angel, getting the benefits of both, choosing neither. When he walks away from the car your stomach drops.

The angel has tied his wings to the car, permanently. No wonder it can go anywhere, appear and disappear as if it was a ghost car. The gliding makes sense now. But for an angel to give up his wings, to forever be tied to a physical object...

"You know the rules, Dean," Castiel says. "We found an angel – it's mine to judge."

"_Fallen_ angel," you snap. "Castiel."

His name alone is an accusation, a curse. He's the one you should've killed, he betrayed your trust the hardest. You found your footing, carved a life out for yourself. If Castiel orders you to join you aren't sure you'll be able to defy him, but you won't join him voluntarily.

Dean steps aside and lets Castiel with his unnatural blue eyes pierce into your soul. You have never interacted with him much when he was your commander, you were too far down the hierarchy for that. But you recognize that determination, that quirk that makes him think just a little different. This close up you smell the stench of the demon lingering on his trench coat, and you hate him.

It's a toss-up between who you hate more: the demon or the angel. They're both scruffy-looking, they think they can change the world. Wherever they go bodies litter the streets and screams follow in their wake.

But they're too powerful for you to fight – Hell, you lined the street along with everyone else. Something triggered the realization that you are a fallen angel, but your tiny wings are no match for the ones tied to the vehicle. You can feel the black magic of the car plucking away at your Grace, like someone stealing a French fry off of your plate. By itself a tiny theft, but altogether your plate's empty before you realize it.

From over Castiel's shoulder you spot curious faces pressing up against the windows, you hear the door of a storm shelter slowly open. This has never happened before as far as you know, and you have heard all about the rampage the demon caused as he travels across America. Naturally people are curious, you can't blame them. You just hope your daughter isn't among them. The innocents mingle with the guilty, peeking over each other's shoulders to catch every word being said.

There's a faint buzz of hope flitting across the road. The demon hasn't started his judgment yet – maybe he'll leave.

The press of two fingers against your forehead brings you back to the predicament you have found yourself in. The next second there's a soundless, painless explosion inside your brain. Spots dance in front of your eyes and your wings flare wide, shoving a few people aside. You think you know what happened, but you're not sure until you can reorient yourself in the present. Briefly you close your eyes and banish the voices of the past back to their proper cortex.

You're not sure how to feel about Castiel sifting through your memories. Violated? Angry? Accepting? … Forgiving?

No. You don't forgive, not anymore. If someone wrongs you, you _act_. Even if it means that people die. You've already listened to orders, you still do. Dean told you to come stand by the road, so you did. You're still standing here instead of flapping your wings and disappearing. They'd track you down though, and there's not a soul in the world who'd harbor you.

So you look Castiel in the eyes and decide on feeling violated but choosing not to do anything about it. You're a moth in the presence of bonfires, after all.

Castiel narrowing his eyes is the only warning you get before he grabs you by your clothes, spins you around and slams your back against the car.

"Your partner didn't deserve to die," he grits out, his voice becoming the same dangerous low quality as Dean's.

"I was betrayed," you say, but then your mind turns towards the car. The metal _looks_ smooth, however, it is anything but. You once had the privilege of petting a shark and the way the metal scratches against your skin reminds you of that.

It feels like... a demon's hide. Bile rises up in your throat as you remember the first time you ever touched a demon. You could never really get rid of that stain of vileness on your hand from when you touched and strangled that demon.

"You should've forgiven," Castiel says and glances sideways at Dean. This angel actually _forgave_ this demon? Continues to forgive him, rides with him, _helps_ him?

Your wings are crushed against the car and the pull on your grace intensifies. It's starting to drain you.

Dean looks on when Castiel gets an angel blade out. You hope your daughter isn't witness to this.

A lick on your palm distracts you from the approaching death. A dog? No. With your true vision rediscovered you see the car for what it really is. You weren't wrong when you thought it felt like a demon's hide – the metal is made from demons. Screaming faces push against the metal, distorting it from the inside. You look down and see a disembodied tongue lapping up the blood from your palms, the deft muscle squirms between your fingers to get at every last drop.

The contours of the car are smoky, the headlights are yellow eyes, the taillights red ones. Narrow pupils follow your every move. Door handles are whitened thigh bones, the tinted windows are black human skin. The car feels warm against your back and you feel bulging faces push against your back, your wings.

Castiel and Dean seem to know that you saw the car for what it truly is. Your horrified expression must've given it away.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Dean says, smirks as he continues with "my baby".

"I judge you," Castiel says, snapping you to attention. His shoulders shift when he grips the blade tighter and slides it effortlessly into the soft part of your belly, nestled neatly inside your stomach. The pain is a distant spike. "Unworthy of life, you don't deserve to serve us either."

Your grace, what little of it you've got, rushes to the wound, but the angel blade repels the healing power. When Castiel removes his weapon of choice the blood streams down your front and you can hear the demons stuck inside the car howl with desire.

Your eyes search out any sign of your daughter, to tell her to cover her eyes but you only find unsympathetic black ones. The baker has black ones, the tyke up at the window flicks from brown to utter black. Against the rules of sin Dean has turned everybody in town.

They all watch as your grace burns through your body, but instead of exploding outwards your energy gets sucked into the car.

You now know what the lights behind the chrome are and within seconds you join your brothers and sisters.

* * *

**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed it. I wonder what gender you imagine the narrator to be and whether you felt your skin crawl even a little bit.

Oh, and English is not my first language, so if you come across a word or sentence that seems off to you, please let me know.


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